He was in a terrible fright, and dared not leave his room all day.] A story which my father used often to tell: "I was brought up," he said, "in the house of Joannes Resta, and therein taught Latin to his three sons; when I left them I supported myself on my own means.

It chanced that one of these lads, while I was studying medicine, fell deadly sick, he being now a young man grown, and I was called in to be with the youth, partly for my knowledge of medicine, partly for old friendship's sake.

The master of the house happened to be absent; the patient slept in an upper chamber, one of his brothers and I in a lower room, the third brother, Isidore, was not at home.

Each of the rooms was next to a turret; turrets being common in that city.

When we went to bed on the first night of my visit, I heard a constant knocking on the wall of the room.
"'What is that ?' I said.
"'Don't be afraid, it is only a familiar spirit,' said my companion.
'They call them follets; it is harmless enough, and seldom so troublesome as it is now: I don't know what can be the matter with it.' "The young fellow went to sleep, but I was kept awake for a while, wondering and observing.